


Stand By House

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: House has an epiphany, House is grumpy, My First Work in This Fandom, Real suicide attempt, Reflection, This means that House didnt 'die' or loathe himself, Wilson helps, alternative universe, and...Everyday House, sarcastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody lies. It's House's motto.<br/>But when he lies to himself, that can't go down well.<br/>Can it? If you lie to yourself that you're fine....<br/>Surely you're not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Easy

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been scrapped and is no longer being continued.
> 
>  
> 
> I am well acquainted with House's character. But some of my facts are probably off. I'm only just starting Season Four, so I'm only just being introduced to characters like Cut-Throat Bitch (A.K.A. Amber), Kutner, Taub, Thirteen. So Chase, Foreman and Cameron may make cameos, but they aren't going to be recurring characters, merely mentioned. I suppose you could say this is set around Season Four then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (At the time of starting this fanfiction). I haven't actually seen many episodes of House M.D., but I have seen the last half an hour of one by chance and studied House's character in great depth; heck, I RolePlay a dog that is practically a carbon copy of him. I am getting Season 1-5 on DVD, so I can settle down with a nice cup of tea, snuggle up under my duvet and hold my own House M.D. marathon.
> 
> So, please note, that odd characters may be a little Out of Character. But House will still be his horrible, negative self.

He doesn't forget, but he doesn't remember either.

He can't remember how long ago it was when his pain first started.

He can't remember the doctors, the surgery or even the prescription.

He couldn't remember the sterile scent of the hospital, the rubber gloves man-handling his leg, the pinch of the needle putting him into a senseless, dark, drug-induced sleep.

He couldn't remember the first grasp of the wooden cane, the bruises on his palm from clenching it too tightly in heated moments of pain.

His pain writhed and strangled, pounded and pulsed, stabbed and sharpened, bit and chewed, tore and ripped, scratched and scarred.

And it was all because of him.

Because he was too stubborn to agree to amputation.

He could have saved himself, but he refused.

' _I created this life for myself,_ ' His cane bounced on the floor as he fiddled with it upon reflecting his lost memories. The words floated through his mind...And he didn't really want them to. ' _And if I created this life, then I can end it, I can take myself away from this place and go forth into the adventurous depths of death,_ ' Thoughts such as these were not uncommon in his brain. ' _But I can find some strength, surely, to carry on. I've survived this long...Haven't I?_ '

He was suicidal, once upon a time. He had shoved a knife into an electrical socket and performed operations on himself time and time again, all in the name of medical miracles - or at least, that was what he told himself. But it had never gotten to a stage where he actually was thinking of going through with it. He was a coward. He could think about it, but whenever he held a knife to his wrist, a gun to his head or a needle of poison to his vein, a flash of terror sparked in his stomach and he had to abandon all ideas of _toodle-pip_.

The doctor shook his head, he was wandering off down the wrong road and he wanted to get back to that lovely dirt track of 'Where Did My Memories Go?'

He tried to think back to his childhood. The days of Ice Baths in the middle of Winter, the 'School Jerk' label and the slow struggle of his social structure that he formed with his fellow students.

He could remember everything. From the scar on his nose all the way to his A* in Science. His scar, he never thought of it, but now he reached up with one hand and touched the raised skin. It actually marked one of the most brutal tortures that his father had ever made him endure. As long as he could remember that, he would have no worries of his memory going _ka-put_.

He wheeled back in his chair until the back of it thumped into the table behind. He swung around and grasped a very special little item. He opened his hand and moved it up down in a rhythm as the pressure was there in his palm and then left, only to return a few milliseconds later, he was bouncing his little red ball, the thing that he carried everywhere with him, his little comfort item, like a child with their blankie they had snuggled from birth. It was rumoured around the hospital that his great-great grandfather from World War One had handed it down to his grandson and so on until it reached its current owner. But in truth, the doctor had merely picked it up out of a gutter, played with it while waiting for the bus and had formed a firm friendship with the inanimate object in the space of around five minutes. It didn't judge, it didn't snap back, he could have long, sarcastic conversations with it without the worry of being out-quipped - not that this had ever happened before and probably never would.

Moving on from the spherical comfort blanket, the diagnostician thought about his friend, one of the only people to ever understand him.

The pair had met when the cripple had first joined Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital, the younger doctor - an oncologist - had been kind, kinder than anyone else, and had welcomed the struggling loner into his place at the Hospital and, through sheltering under his new friend's wing, he had blossomed into...One couldn't really say that he had 'blossomed', more...Wilted into who he was today.

He was a negative smear of dirt and he was not a nice man, but then...Did nice people exist, weren't we all just mean and aggressive on the inside? We were all Oscar-winning actors, when it came to putting on a facade of nicety and cheerfulness, friendliness and positivity.

"House?" Wilson's voice broke through the fog of the diagnostician's mind.

Gregory House - Head of Diagnostics and a lump of sarcastic, crippled, grumpy mass - looked up at his best friend, James Wilson - fellow doctor, Oncologist and all-round Mr Nice-Guy.


	2. A Patient and an Argument

"Well, look, if it isn't my favourite headache," House snapped, sarcastically. "What do you want, Jimmy?"

 

Wilson brushed the sarcasm off, he was used to it and if House was using his affectionate nickname for the younger doctor, then he wasn't really angry at him.

 

"Cuddy wants to know if you you're going to bother with your patient that's been waiting outside your room for about half an hour," Wilson recited. "Her words, not mine." He added quickly.

 

House rolled his head, his neck groaning at him. "If I must." He got up, cane in hand and limped to the door.

 

Wilson retreated into his own office.

 

The diagnostician lent on the doorframe. "First patient, if you please."

 

A blonde, snooty-looking woman stood up and marched towards the fifty-nine year old with her nose in the air. A groan escaped House before he could stop himself; the very appearance of the woman sent a cold slither of annoyance down his spine.

 

"Sit," He said, motioning to the chair with his cane. He helped himself to the chair in the corner and picked up his games console. "What's the matter with you?"

 

"Well, you're the doctor-"

 

"Wow, Sherlock Holmes replacement here you come." House cut across the woman without even looking up from Level Two.

 

"So you should know."

 

"Have you got your file?"

 

"This?"

 

"Were you given it when you came in?"

 

"Yes."

 

"So, what do you think it is? An application for a hooker?" He paused. "Now there's an idea..." He muttered under his breath, but quickly shook the idea off; he wasn't in the mood.

 

The woman gave a disgusted noise. "I am above such things!"

 

"Good for you." House said, his console proceeding to Level Six.

 

"Are you going to take my file or just sit there on your video game?"

 

"I was planning to just sit here on my video game, but, if you insist to be treated..." House paused the game and chucked it onto the counter. He took the file and skim-read the symptoms, not caring about the personal details.

 

House rolled his eyes. "You have swine flu."

 

"I do not. I have read about it on the internet - I have a serious cough, it must be lung cancer."

 

"Well, if the internet is so damn reliable, why are you here?"

 

"To get treated."

 

"Oh, can the internet not do that?" House said in a mocking, baby voice. "Because it seems to be taking our jobs."

 

"The internet can't give me surgery, you silly man."

 

"You don't need surgery, it's swine flu. I'll give you an injection now and you can leave me alone." House stood up and limped to his sink, where his needles and fluids were stored in a cupboard.

 

"What happened to your leg?" The question rattled him.

 

"I developed a pain in my leg shortly after seeing your ugly face."

 

"Well, you don't have to be so rude about it."

 

"I don't talk about my leg. Now, shut up and let me inject you." He said, limping back to sit on the chair next to the woman and steadying the needle.

 

The blonde looked away and squeezed her knee.

 

"On the count of three," House's voice was cold and emotionless. "One, two, three." The needle was pushed through the flesh, plunged and taken out. The diagnostician taped a plaster over the small needle point hole and binned the needle of the syringe.

 

The woman was very pale and her hands shook. "Here." House handed a glass of water.

 

"Thank you." She whispered and sipped the drink quietly.

 

"You can sit there for a bit and get over the jab," House said down in his corner chair and picked up his console. "While I completely ignore you and kill some more space monkeys."

 

*******************

 

The woman sat there for the next fifteen minutes and, just as he had promised, was completely ignored.

 

When she left, he pondered.

 

He tried to remember that golf course, what hole had he been at? Who was with him? What course was it in the first place? He couldn't even remember the club in his hand or the ambulance taking him away. But...He knew there had been both.

 

One: He was on a golf course, in was inevitable that he had been holding a club. He wasn't just going to stand around gormlessly watching the golf, now was he?

 

Two: He had been injured - severely - there must have been an ambulance involved. Unless he was just teleported to a hospital bed, but he doubted that.

 

How long had those tumours been there? Could he have saved himself from the pain he was experiencing now if he had just diagnosed himself sooner? What was the point of wondering? It wouldn't change anything, and even if it did, he would still be angry and hate the world with every fibre of his being.

 

He didn't bother to think anymore, it was hurting his head and he needed some Vicodin. The pills dropped into his hand - five more than he should take- and was about to tip them down his throat...When Wilson walked in.

 

"Oi!" The oncologist yelled and ran at House. His hand flew through the air and smacked into the diagnostician's pill-filled hand. Sending the Vicodin scattering across the floor.

 

"Hey! Pea brain!" House shouted, indignantly. "I need those! They aren't as cheap as you think!"

 

"You know you're only meant to take one!"

 

"My leg hurts," House whined, getting onto his knees - hissing with pain - and picking up the pills. "And I haven't actually taken one today."

 

"Really?" Wilson sounded sincere. As though he thought House was telling the truth.

 

House frowned and placed a hand mockingly on his chest. "What? You think I'd lie about such a thing?" He said, sounding both hurt and sarcastic. Then, he returned to his normal, gravelly, bored tone. "Because I am."

 

Wilson sighed in defeat. "You are hopeless."

 

"Thanks, that made me feel warm and fluffy on the inside."

 

"Well, you are. You're addicted to that stuff."

 

"It helps me. One of the only things that does, you think that I want to live my life in pain without a drug, just so people can say," House put on a mocking, deep, dumb voice. "'You're not addicted to that Vicodin crap any more, well done.' NO!" He yelled the last word and struggled to his feet, looming over Wilson.

 

The oncologist shrank back. "Ok...Ok..."

 

"We've had this conversation before, I don't want to have it again." House said, throwing the pills into his mouth and swallowing them.

 

And with that, House stalked out of his treatment room and back into his office.


	3. Am I Going Mad?

It was only three days later, sitting on his couch in his apartment, Wilson sitting next to him, both sharing a Chinese takeaway, that House started hearing voices.

It wasn't the first time, but it was too long ago for him to remember. The drug-induced sleep had seen to that.

" _House..._ "

To start off with, House merely shook his head and paid no attention to the ghostly voice of his conscience that sounded peculiarly like his step-father.

" _You're a disgrace, you always were. Maybe we should have aborted you. You were unwanted. In fact, you were born on the M52, that's where most accidents happen._ "

' _Thank you, I have a new insult._ ' House retorted to the voice by throwing something back through the lapping waters of his thought stream.

" _The world would be a better place if you had never been born, your father wouldn't have left and I would never have had to put up with your crappy little presence._ "

The voice started to grate on his defence shield. His father's disappearance had always been a touchy subject; he didn't like people talking about it.

" _Ah, touchy, is it? You're not as strong as you think, are you? You're weak, you always were, you used to cry when the other kids were bullying you, you'd cry curled up in the corner while your mother fawned over you like the pathetic bitch she was._ "

House stiffened. His fork fell out of his hand and dropped into the metal carton. The sound of Wilson's concerned 'You ok, House?' barely scratched the surface of the diagnostician's ear drums.

"How dare you..." He whispered quietly through gritted teeth.

" _Oh, believe me, I dare, child, I dare. You can't do anything to me. Anything you do is futile, useless, pathetic. Just like your mother._ "

House's breathing got heavier.

" _She never loved you, how could she? You're a worthless piece of unwanted crap, and I feel sorry for her, having to give birth to such a thing. And worse, you're a cripple, unable to fight for your life, but resort to drugs to keep your pain to a tolerable level._ "

By now, House was trembling, not just in fury, but in fear as well. Fear for his sanity.

" _You're go-ing ma-ad, you're go-ing ma-ad._ " The voice sing-sang in his ear, with the kind of tone that a five year old would take after triumphing over his greatest rival in getting the last toy out of the cereal box. Or something similar to Horrid Henry's trademark tease. And the teasing continued until he couldn't take it anymore...House, not Horrid Henry.

"STOP!!" House yelled out loud, the carton of takeaway food flying from his grip as he threw his hands up to clutch at his head, his eyes squeezing shut to stop his tear ducts from actually working after years of being redundant. "STOP, STOP, STOP!" He kept yelling until he over-rode the mockery inside his own head.

"House...HOUSE!" Wilson cried. He threw his own carton on the table and grabbed his friend's shoulders as the diagnostician thrashed and convulsed against the back of the sofa. Wilson ended up pinning House to the back cushions and sitting on his lap.

But what made the oncologist stare more than the sight of his friend convulsing like that were the damp streaks of tears on his cheeks.

"What the hell happened, House?" Wilson pulled a dry handkerchief from his pocket and stroked House's tears away with it. "What happened? You can tell me."

House shook his head and batted away Wilson's hand. "Stop it, you're deafening me with your caring. I'm _fine_." He shoved Wilson off of the diagnostician's lap and back-first onto the sofa.

"But...You were yelling and started convulsing." Wilson stuttered.

"I don't care, just leave me alone." House grabbed the remote control and angrily stabbed the power button to turn it on. He changed the channel to GOLD, where _Jeeves & Wooster_, an old British comedy that House favoured, was glowing on the screen.

Wilson persisted. He reached over and placed his hand on House's arm. "STOP IT!" House yelled. And then...The diagnostician did something that he never thought would.

His balled fist flew up and connected hard with Wilson's nose, throwing him back on the couch.

The oncologist let out a cry of pain and clutched at his bleeding nose. It wasn't broken, he knew that much.

House gaped and backed away from his injured friend and when his back connected with the arm of the sofa, he stood up - grabbing his cane - and limped backwards towards the wall. He pressed himself against it as though he believed it would suck him away into the neighbouring room.

Wilson moaned and pushed himself up with the arm of the sofa. He sat, cross-legged, staring at House.

The diagnostician was trembling and staring at his friend as though he was staring at Death itself. Fear bloomed in his stomach, like a beautiful flower at the start of spring...As long as that 'beautiful flower' was a Venus Flytrap.

How could he do such a thing? Sure, Wilson pissed him off now and again, but everybody did, - it was something about his cane (a cripple is easy to over-power, apparently), he was sure of it, or maybe it was his alluring personality - but he never hit any of them. Why did it have to be Wilson? Couldn't it have been Chase? Or Foreman? Or Taub? Or Kutner? Or anyone but Wilson? Maybe some random patient's cousin's aunt's niece's brother's friend's wife's daughter's grandson? Maybe he could claim that the little arse had kicked his leg or snapped his cane? Or any other feeble, House-like excuse.

He couldn't even form the words that he should have said three minutes ago. While he had been questioning why he hadn't hit that imaginary random patient's cousin's aunt's...Well, that extended family member that hadn't kicked his leg although he claimed him to have, House had been gaping like a trout out of water; gasping for air and everything.

The first man to speak, through the blood from his nose, was Wilson. "House...Are you alright?"

And at last, House gained the ability to speak...But maybe it had been better for him to stay quiet. "No, Wilson, I seem to be bleeding heavily from my nose, look, I can see it in the mirror...Wait...My reflection has suddenly decreased in years...And shaved thoroughly...And gotten coloured eye contacts...And suddenly looks like you! Oh...It _is_ you! What a surprise! OF COURSE I'M FINE, WILSON, I'M THE ONE THAT HIT _YOU_!" House roared the last sentence.

Wilson winced at the raging ball of fury suddenly blurting out of his friend. "I meant, House, is your brain ok? You never hit anyone, not close to you. What's going on inside that head of yours? What was it that was so bad, that when I try and help, you punch me in the nose and become defensive?" Wilson soothed. "Are you going mad?"

House shuddered at the question. "That's just it, Wilson... _Am_ I going mad?"


	4. First Aid

“You know there’s one thing that you still haven’t said to me yet.” Wilson said, wincing as House gently applied pressure to that bleeding nose of his.

“Oh yeah? What’s that? ‘You’re a big fat idiot for trying to console the inconsolable.’?” House replied, sarcastically.

“One option,” The oncologist smirked. “But it has a smaller amount of words than that.”

“How many?”

“Two,” Wilson said. “Or three if you take out the apostrophe.”

“Hm, give me another clue.”

“You often say it when you’ve just knocked someone’s stack of papers out of their hands.”

“’Clean up on aisle three’?” House said with a secret smirk. “Nope, no apostrophe and too many words.”

“Or if you accidentally hit someone with your cane.”

“’I’d get a doctor to look at that.’” House frowned. “No, still too many words, but I got an apostrophe though.”

“Just apologise, House, that’s all I want.”

House froze. He didn’t want to apologise. Not just because he was an arrogant, self-absorbed arsehole, but because, if he apologised, that would make it real. It would put all the blame on him. It would pull the plug on fooling himself into thinking that forgetting about the incident would make everything ok again. But Wilson expected an apology and if he expected that from someone like House, then maybe it wasn't just him who was losing his mind. There were lines, boundaries, ad apologies were one of them.

"I'm...Wilson...I can't apologise..." House looked away.

"Why not?" Wilson said, rolling his eyes and waiting for some sort of three year old pout.

"Because there are some things that I never learnt how to say," House spat sarcastically. "Why do you think? Apologising makes it final, makes it my fault."

"It is your fault."

"But I don't want to think about that! I want us to forget about it."

"That'll be hard when the doctors notice a cotton ball stuck in each of my nostrils." Wilson drawled.

"Then take time off."

"And say what? That I came down with Lupus?"

"No, I think a cold is both subtler and less concerning." House's distress, Wilson noticed, didn't stop him from being a sarcastic bastard.

Wilson proceeded to voice this sudden notification in the diagnostician's personality.

"Thank you, one of my endearing qualities." House smirked.

"Seems as though you missed the lesson on Human Etiquette, but you were probably top of the class in Being an Ass."

"Funny, I thought we went to different schools," House mused. "But you seem to know my GCSE grades very well."

"Knowing who you are today, it wasn't a hard guess."

"You have a point."

"I know."

The pair lapsed into a comfortable silence, in which House proceeded to clean up Wilson's face and give him a new pack of tissues. House then stole Wilson's takeaway carton and slumped back on the sofa. The oncologist didn't mind; House was House, he always nicked stuff from the younger doctor - edible or not.

"Hate to say it, House," Wilson mused, leaning over and stabbing a prawn ball with his fork from House's carton that used to be the oncologist's. "But this is a major set-back."

"In what? The 'Prettiest Nose Competition' that you'll have to pull out of?" House said, staring at the TV screen.

"Forgot about that..." Wilson played the 'Humour House' game. A game he often played. "I meant in our friendship, I don't know if I can come round for a takeaway anymore."

"Must we talk about this? Can't we just watch this and finish supper?"

Wilson sighed and leant his body weight on House, the diagnostician draped his arm over his younger friend, even though it was only to reach the carton of food. In a sense, they were hugging, even if both of them were taking food out of the carton that House was holding. Wilson laying in the crook of the diagnostician's left arm merely made it look as though the pair were sharing a tender moment.

*

Half an hour later, when Wilson had fallen asleep - still in House's embrace - that the older doctor whispered into the oncologist's hair what he should have done ages ago.

"I'm sorry..."

It hurt to say it, to know that he actually had it in him to lash out at someone as close to him as that, to know that he wasn't stable, to know that he was petrified, but the source of his fear was something he had never feared before: Himself. His mind. His body. His emotions. His sanity. The fact that he was thinking like _this_ was scary. He understood the intimidation and the hurt that he inflicted upon others. Do you want to know why?

Because he was doing it to himself.

 


	5. Bad to Worse

The next day, House was curled up in a foetal position, water splattering down on his semi-naked body, pooling underneath him, his boxers getting ruined.

"House?"

Hold on a second there, Miss Skip-The-Important-Bits! Where on earth would House be curled up semi-naked, ruining his boxers where water could come into contact with his skin? And why is someone else peering in on that?

Alright, let's go back to the crack of dawn, when the sun was raising his happy head over the horizon and the birds started to sing their chirpy little songs, the alarm clocks of New Jersey ringing and pissing off the happy slumbering people tucked up in bed, forcing them to drag themselves out of their warm, blanketed cocoons and into the freezing cold tiled prison of the bathroom.

This also happened to Wilson, who had stayed the night accidentally after falling asleep in House's embrace and the diagnostician had fallen asleep soon after. The older man had woken up at some time during the night, his leg throbbing and transferred both himself and Wilson into the double bed in the next room to save their bodies from suffering sofa-ache in the morning. The oncologist must have been tired because he didn't stir at all while House dragged him across the carpet.

Getting back to sleep after that wasn't easy. In an effort to get comfortable, House tossed and turned - as well as he could with his leg throbbing and when it was like this, even brushing it against a wall was painful. Now, you might be thinking why House didn't just get up and pop some Vicodin as he would usually do. Well, you see House had taken his last two before settling down with his takeaway, he hadn't counted on waking up at all during the night. Thus, he'd run out of painkillers.

He focused on slowing his breathing, he was laying on his back, head pressing into the pillow to focus on anything but his leg, in such times before it had helped battle against the pain. But not tonight. It was excruciating. And the diagnostician did everything in his power to not cry out or moan or make any other noise at all. He didn't want Wilson waking up and freaking out because he was in the same bed as his best friend of twenty years.

He held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his fists, bit his tongue. Everything he could to stop himself from gasping or hissing or, even worse, shouting in pain.

Half an hour, he managed to keep quiet, half an hour. Then, when the digital clock shone the time; 23:59, he let out a long groan.

Wilson stirred and his eyes fluttered. In his haste to not be seen, House rolled over so suddenly that he fell off the bed. The _thump_ had his eyes watering. He had landed on his bum leg and the pain stabbed into his thigh with such force, he actually thought someone was driving a knife through his dead muscle.

The bed creaked and House held his breath and started to drag himself to the bathroom. The carpet bristled against his t-shirt and trousers, things that he forgot to change out of. It was pitch black and, luckily, so were his clothes, Wilson would never see him.

He soon made it to the bathroom and shut the door quietly, then clicked on the light.

He stood in the shower, and, as he stripped down to his boxers, he nicked the power button with his elbow. It was just at the right temperature and House sighed as it burned the pain out of his leg.

He sat down on the floor of the shower, stretching his legs out. He had forgotten to take off his boxers in the relief of freedom. He sat there for a long time...But his fredom was short-lived.

" _He'll leave, as soon as he finds out where he is, he'll leave._ " His father was back.

"Shut up, not here, not now." House muttered, clasping his head.

" _I'll torment you anywhere and everywhere, I don't care where you are or who you're with, I'll torment you until the day you die._ " His father chuckled cruelly in his head, it rebounded against his skull and used his brain as a trampoline.

"Get out of my head, go on, piss off, John."

" _Oh, not 'Daddy', 'Pops' or any other terms of endearment that sons usually call their fathers? I'm surprised, Greg, you used to call me that when you were little._ "

"Yeah, and that was before I found out who you _really_ were; a lying, cheating scumbag."

" _Ooh, harsh, come on, I may be a disembodied voice in your head, but I have feelings._ "

"Yeah, you have feelings and I have cleavage." House replied sarcastically. He wasn't caring about the volume of his voice anymore, if Wilson could hear him, then so be it.

" _You'll never see him again, he'll never talk to you. As soon as he realises that he's been sharing a bed with_ you _, of all people, he'll run a mile._ "

"Wilson? He wouldn't leave. He's my best friend." House protested.

" _You'll be alone. If it doesn't happen today, it'll happen one day._ "

"No, no, it won't."

" _Maybe he'll be hijacked by a couple of black thugs, like Foreman, and be murdered._ "

"No."

" _Or maybe he'll be kidnapped and slaughtered._ "

"No."

" _Or maybe he'll commit suicide when you hurt his feelings, he's a little soft, isn't he?_ "

"He can take what I say. And no, he is _not_ soft."

" _One day, you'll tip him over the edge. You push and push._ "

"Shut up."

" _Imagine it: Wilson with a gun in his hand, he raises it to his temple, pulls the trigger. Or how about this: Wilson slitting his wrists with a knife. Wilson jumping off a balcony. Wilson drowning. Wilson hanging himself. Wilson dying in front of you._ "

"NO!" By the 'Wilson jumping off a balcony' part, House was curled up in the feotal position he was in when we opened this chapter, he was shivering and his salty tears mixed in with the increasingly warm shower water.

"House?"

The diagnostician looked up in answer to his name. His eyes, bloodshot and puffy, grew wide with fear. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the wet shower floor and launched himself into Wilson's arms.

The oncologist stumbled back and blinked confusedly at the trembling House in his arms. "Hey...What's up?" He said, putting his hands on the older man's shoulders and pushed him away. They stared at each other, blue and brown irises reflecting in each other, Wilson's hands were still on House's shoulders and the latter's hands were on the former's forearms, gripping tightly.

"Don't ever leave me, Jimmy, ever," The diagnostician was the first to speak. His voice thick with tears. "I can try and be nicer, I can hold out on the insults, I'll stop stealing your food, just don't take anything I do to heart."

"Whoa, whoa, kill the motor, House," Wilson said. "I don't care what you say to me, I'm used to it. Whatever you say, you'll never stop stealing my food." He smiled gently.

"B-But, you hate it when I do that. I can stop doing it if you want me to."

"No, House, it's you, your personality, part of your funny little charm," Wilson's mouth twisted. "What brought this on? And why were you laying on the floor of the shower?"

"W-Well...N-No reason..."

"What do you think I am? An idiot?" Wilson responded before House could say anything. "Don't answer that."

"I just...I kept thinking that...If I kept digging and digging...Pushing and pushing...Someone could get hurt...Badly...They might...They might commit-"

Wilson cut over him. "Whoa! House, no one's going to kill themselves over your personality, people get used to it, they brush off your comments because they're silly and no one cares for sarcastic quips about how low their top line is."

House looked down at his feet. He wiggled his toes in an awkward little way. And looked back up at Wilson.

The oncologist gasped as House grabbed him and wrapped his hands around his shorter friend and nuzzled his chin into the fluffy brown hair. This time they really were hugging. But what made it a little more weird was that Wilson was nestled into a forest of House's chest hair.

But, frankly, Wilson didn't care about that. He straightened up and settled his head on the diagnostician's damp shoulder and squeezed him tight. "I'll never, ever leave you, whatever you say, whatever you do, wild horses couldn't drag me away."

"I'm pretty sure they could," House said, nuzzling his head into the side of Wilson's face. "Horses in general are pretty strong."

"I don't care, nothing could drive me away from my best friend," Wilson said, his breath tickling House's neck. "Especially when he needs me so much."

House smiled. "I love you, Wilson." He said.

"I know, I love you too..." Wilson said. "In the friend way, right?"

"Right," He smiled.

***************************

Wilson's nose had cleared up over night and he was able to go into work.

House limped into the hospital, Wilson walking behind him, and made a beeline for the pharmacist. "Vicodin." He slapped a prescription on the desk.

"Who's it for?" The new chap at the desk looked suspiciously at House.

"Who do you think? Angelina Jolie?" For me, you idiot."

"And you are?"

"Gregory House, read the damn prescription, that'll tell you everything about me, it'll even say that I'm gay and fancy muttonchops over there." He jerked his head at Wilson.

Without another word, the pharmacist slid the bottle of pills over.

House immediately popped the lid of one and threw two little white oblongs of paradise down his throat. He sighed as they worked their magic and his pain pissed off to bother him at a later date.

"House!" A female, annoyed voice brought him back from his reverie of peace and quiet.

"Oh, great, just when I thought you were going to leave me alone for the day," House grumbled, turning to face Cuddy. "What have I done now? Have I knocked over a vase of flowers? Made someone have a fit? Or have you just nothing better to do than annoy me?"

"You have to do clinic hours all day today, no cases."

"That's absurd! Surely _someone's_ available to become my next human pin cushion."

"Nope, and even if they did, I wouldn't let you go anywhere near them. You're banned from any cases for a month and that month will be filled with clinic hours."

"Well, merry Christmas and a happy go to hell, love Cuddy," House spat. He was in no mood to argue about how unfair it was. "Come on, Vogler's long gone, he went at the end of Season One. What did I do that was so bad, I got a month of Clinic Duty?"

"You were you."

"But I'm me all the time, I'm never Wilson or Foreman or Angelina Jolie."

"You've used that joke already." The pharmacist spoke up.

House glared at him and he put his head back into his work.

"Fine, I'm never Mo Farah either." House snapped.

"You're able to bend the rules and I'm too lenient. Your clinic hours should be a debt, you should be seeing patients fly through the Exit, but instead they have to wait for an hour before being seen and I've had enough. You are doing clinic hours and nothing else for one month, is that clear?"

"Yep, clear as your cleavage in that top." House smirked and limped away to Examination Room One.

***************************

He sat there, muttering curses at Cuddy. He was probably being played; the Dean would have him sitting there all day and not have one patient, while several people were dying because he was occupied otherwise.

But sadly, someone came in.


End file.
